Moon when coyote
is my shadow.
Moon of the snapping
willow thickets.
Moon of the
missing cats.

Moon of the potluck
Moon of the tock, tock
at the woodpile.
Moon of filched sleep.

Moon that raises our chins
with light years,
traces the camber
of a wing.

From “When We Begin To Grow Old”:

I

Tell me the one
about the town
where you were born,
where the ocean
froze in the bay,
how it moaned and clacked
and collapsed with the tides
leaving its bright
and violent architecture
not much good
for skates.